Silent Knight
by CassieKnight
Summary: Set five years before the Knights can touch freedom, Tristan encounters a battle he cannot fight with just a sword. Does he pick his honor or forbidden love? (Bad summary, but please R&R)
1. I

Author's note: Have pity on me for this is the first King Arthur fic I've come up with. Some things may not be accurate historically, but then again that goes for the movie as well. After all, though, it is fanfiction and writing about Tristan is the pleasure of it all.

Before I finish my babbling, though, I want to give a HUGE and heartfelt thanks to **_Solain_****_ Rhyo_** for helping me work some stuff out with the plot line and reading the first chapter to see how much it sucked. She's such a wonderful person and I thank her for putting up with me and my questions.

Alright, enough of this….go read :) And yes, the title stinks, but that's the only thing I could come up with right now.

_Silent Knight_

**I**

The rain was blinding. It pierced each man's face as they rode towards the southwest in search of a Roman army in need of help. According to a soldier that barely escaped with his life, having been struck by two arrows in the shoulder during his retreat, the army had been ambushed by a large group of Woads, the natives of the land. These people—these painted peoples—hated Rome and anything that was even in the least bit connected. Whenever they had a chance they'd fight for the freedom they felt belonged to them, for the island they dwelt on was Briton territory the Romans decided to venture into and claim for themselves.

No one quite understood the Woads except that they were a Pagan tribal nation. They were feared by the common peasant and hated by everyone. Roman soldiers found them annoying and would send out any available man to shoot down any single person that crossed the boundary created by a seventy-two mile wall with the name of Hadrian.

And like almost every other time, the job was given to a group of non-Roman knights that served the vast empire after their fathers were forced into an agreement to loan the empire their sons in return for their families' lives. These knights, known as the Sarmatian knights from the land they came from, rode under their commander Artorius Castus, whom they called Arthur.

The riding conditions weren't unusual. In fact, it would be most peculiar if it didn't rain—it hadn't for almost a good week. Briton was cursed in that sense for when it wasn't giving off some sort of precipitation it was foggy and miserably damp. But the knights rode forth away from the hidden sun, their leader at the head of the pack upon his white stallion. The seven others following galloped close behind, ready for any unexpected appearance of the enemy.

But their luck held out and they didn't have to stop during the time while the sun kept high in the sky. By dusk, however, they had each grown tired and needed a chance to stretch their legs and rest with food until the next morning when they'd be on their horses again by sunrise. Arthur chose a spot near a small cluster of trees and dismounted, his knights following suit.

The rain lightened up only a little, which made for a hard time making a campfire under the leafy canopy. If it hadn't been that none of them had eaten since their departure, they would've skipped the food and gone straight to sleep. The tallest of the knights, Dagonet, managed to spark a flame and a fire struggled to keep itself ablaze while he and his closest friend Bors cooked a good hunk of the meat they brought on the trip. Off to the side, Arthur's bondservant, Jols, was tending to the horses. Jols wasn't a knight, but he fit into their 'family' just the same.

Four of the knights, Lancelot, Gawain, Erec and Galahad, settled themselves down in a spot under a large tree, their clothes being kept fairly mud-free from the armor they wore. They made mild conversation while they each drank their small supply of wine. Lancelot entertained them with a story of a charming young woman he had met in the town they lived in, a small town inside a fort next to Hadrian's Wall headed by the Roman military. The others listened intently, throwing out jokes here and there.

The one knight that chose to keep to him self this time was known as Tristan, a quiet warrior that found peace in his own silence and usually traveled ahead of the others to scope out any potential danger. He enjoyed his job; scouting was his preferred way of journeying and killing was not a crime, but an art that he enjoyed practicing.

Standing alone, away from the semi-protection of the rain provided by the arms of the trees, Tristan popped a few berries into his mouth, chewing them slowly as he gazed out at the wet and darkening land in front of him. Although the sun had recently disappeared behind the horizon, he saw that the clouds were breaking up far in the east and a smooth sky struggled to keep them away. The water from the rain dripped down his face and nestled into his short brown beard. Long wisps of his bangs hung over his eyes, but he didn't care. If he had he would've cut it shorter like Arthur, Lancelot and Galahad had chosen; or he could've shaved his head completely like Bors and Dagonet, but he found that much too extreme.

He gave no motion of alarm when Arthur joined at his side and gazed out into the distant land. Tristan kept his gaze in the same direction, giving no acknowledgement to his friend's appearance.

"Those clouds are breaking up in the east," Arthur pointed out, although Tristan could tell by the sound of his voice that he wasn't the first to see this. "We should have a clear ride tomorrow."

Tristan gave only a short nod and finished his handful of berries. He ran his thumb and fingers down the side lengths of his beard and looked up at the rain coming down. Arthur had seen that Tristan wasn't going to talk and turned to join the other knights at the camp. Bors had called out that the meat was pretty much cooked, but Tristan stood still for several more moments before turning to get some.

The knights gathered tightly together so they could each get their share of the cow meat they had brought along. Bors had a knack for cooking, which was lucky for the knights when they were sent out away from the fort.

Tristan found a spot next to Erec, who was probably his closest friend amongst the knights. Their families lived close by in the small village set up after the Sarmatian and Roman battle; therefore he had known Erec since the beginning. They weren't exactly the type that shared every secret and went to the other for help directly, but their relationship was unique compared to the ones they had with the other knights. Tristan felt all of the knights were his friends and he knew he could trust all of them, but Erec was the only one who truly understood him.

He sat quietly eating and drinking, listening to the babble Galahad finished up; next came Arthur's speech on their newest adventure.

"Knights, the army we seek has supposedly been dismantled enough where they need assistance getting home," he explained.

"What else is new? They are, after all, Romans," Lancelot said with a smirk to Gawain next to him.

"Lancelot," Arthur warned and turned his attention away from his right-hand man. "Their horses have been either seized or slaughtered and the journey back to the fort is much too far. According to our fugitive friend, there probably aren't many survivors."

"Wait," Gawain laughed and looked around for support as he spoke, "You didn't mention this no-horse thing before. How the hell are we supposed to get them back? Carry them?"

"More importantly, why the hell are we making the effort if this jackass claims there probably won't be many survivors?" Bors spit. "Sounds like a waste of my time, if ya ask me."

"These are our orders," Arthur pointed out. "We cannot go against them."

"Whatever," Gawain said and leaned back on his elbow.

"Don't worry," Erec said standing up to stretch. "In less than five years we'll be off this damn island and on our way home. If I have to pick up shit for the Romans to get me there, so be it."

"Here, here!" Galahad said and raised his mug.

They finished up their meal and spread out for the night. Tristan went to his horse to remove his weapons strapped to the saddle. It was a nightly ritual when away from the fort to clean his sword and daggers, even if they hadn't been used. To him, he felt that his first kill of a battle deserved the cleanest of blades.

"Polishing again, old friend?"

Tristan turned half around to see a smiling Erec walking his way. "Diving into other's business again?" He countered.

"Ah, but of course," he said and patted the other man on the shoulder. His hand moved to stroke the snout of the dappled horse. "Where's the bird?"

"Out," Tristan replied simply. His pet hawk, a great aspect to his scouting trips, was out hunting as it always did during the night. The other knights questioned how Tristan managed to train the brown-winged hunter to soar above the tree tops in search of seemingly-invisible danger, but the only answer they would ever receive was that Tristan learned it from his father.

Erec was silent for a moment as he stroked the horse's velvet nose, his eyes watching Tristan's dirty hands running a rag over the shiny blade of his sabre. "You know," he said finally, "I thought that we'd eventually be getting worthy tasks once we were a few years into this Hell hole, but it seems that whatever those scumbags don't want to do they give it to us."

"Does that surprise you?" Tristan asked in return, his eyes making no gesture to his fellow Sarmatian.

"Not really," Erec sighed. "I'm just sick of it, ya know? That bird of yours is damn lucky; it can get away whenever it wants. Five years, Tristan; just five and we're gone."

"Keep thinking it and the further it'll be," Tristan said returning the sword to its sheath.

"Such optimism," Erec replied sarcastically. He released the horses head and walked away.

Tristan sat still for a moment looking at the side of his grey and white horse. Erec knew he wanted to be free—which one of the knights didn't want it? Fighting for Rome under a cause not their own wasn't something they had chosen to do. Even Arthur, a Roman in part himself wanted his freedom to live as he pleased. It was a curse they all had to bear and survival wasn't always easy. They had started their journey as knights with a group of twenty-five and slowly they were being flicked off so that their number was down to eight.

Shrugging the thought off, Tristan pulled off a blanket from his horse's saddle and laid it out on the soggy ground next to a tree. The rain had pretty much disappeared now, which would make for an easier rest. Sitting down and finding a comfortable position, Tristan relaxed and closed his eyes. Freedom was all he ever wanted…even if he had to pay the price to get there.

**øøø**

Tristan awoke with a start when he heard a shout coming from beyond the trees. The sun was barely starting to peak over the mountains in the east and fog blanketed the moist fields. He looked around and listened carefully. The sound of metal striking metal made him jump to his feet, grab his sabre and hustle off.

A battle had suddenly broken out and his fellow knights were striking at half-naked people covered in a bluish paint, their cries unknown to foreign ears. At least three dozen Woads had scurried out of hiding to attack the Sarmatian knights, probably with hopes to get rid of the ever-going threat.

Tristan ran forward, striking down a Woad man who had his back turned at the time. Another turned around, his ax being raised in the air and a powerful yell emitting from his mouth. Tristan let out a deep sigh and held his weapon on a horizontal angle, waiting for his opponent to attack.

As expected, the Woad lunged forward, arm swinging down while his eyes burned with hatred at the knight. Tristan raised his free hand up as if to hold onto something, then his right arm twisted and swung, the silver blade of his sword slicing through flesh and spilling blood onto the damp grass.

Tristan waited and turned his head slightly when he heard a faint gasp behind him. Quickly he twisted around, his arm pulling back and then jumping forward to insert the sword straight through the oncoming Woad. The man struggled for breath, his brown eyes fixed on Tristan's face. Tristan watched with no expression; the only gesture he gave was a shake of his head to remove a thick braid that had fallen over his nose during his turnaround.

Removing the sword, the man fell to the ground, face splattering into mud. Tristan twirled the handle of the curved blade in his hand and looked at the fight behind him. Lancelot was the closest, fighting it out with his two identical swords; Arthur and Erec were on either side, slashing at the enemy with their own swords, Erec currently beheading one Woad that sliced at his leg.

Tristan moved towards them, since no others came to him. As he approached, he noticed a few Woads standing off to the side—women, in fact, each of them holding a bow and loading an arrow to fire into the fight. He quickened his pace, his eyes set on the two women who aimed towards Erec, Lancelot, and Arthur. He had no fear of killing a woman—if they held a weapon against him he'd bring them down without regret.

A sharp yell snapped in his ears, though, as he approached the two archers. When he turned a young blonde Woad ran towards him, dagger held firmly in one hand and a bow in the other. Tristan waited, his fingers flexing over the handle of his oriental-styled weapon as his new opponent came.

Only seconds before the man was at him, Tristan held out his sabre low and curved edge pointing towards the sky. When the time was right, he'd swing it up and cut through the side of the other. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, the fierce face of his enemy shining with white and blue eyes; mouth opened wide and yells jumping out.

Yet something unexpected happened. The footing of the young warrior was unfaithful, and one step made him slip on the slick grass. Tristan was caught off guard and although he was not hurt at the sudden swing from the Briton, he did lose the format in which he was going to kill him with. The man quickly turned over, mud covering his blue-painted body and eyes filled with fear. Tristan stood over him, his soft brown eyes looking down with pity. The Briton hissed something in his native tongue, which Tristan did not understand; it made no difference, though. As he always thought, a good Woad was a dead one.

Taking his sabre he stabbed the man unmercifully in the gut, blood spewing up and down the body of his victim. The Briton choked, his hands moving towards the newly inflicted wound in his abdomen and cried out in utter pain.

"Seoras!" A woman's voice screamed out violently.

Tristan looked up, still holding the weapon where it was lodged into the pit of other warrior's stomach, and set eyes on another archer he hadn't seen moments ago. Even with the blue paint and even darker blue tattoos littering her body, he could tell that she was beautiful. She stared at him with both deep hatred and complete astonishment.

As he stared her down, Tristan yanked his sword from the body of whoever he had just killed. But his eyes couldn't focus on her for long—the archer standing behind her let lose an arrow…that pierced the heart of Erec.

Tristan's world stopped as Erec jumped and immediately dropped his sword to clutch the arrow that had struck him. Tristan witnessed a second arrow leaping down and joining the second in his chest. The two archer women disappear as he ran forward without consciously realizing he was doing so. He had no care what was going on around him—his best friend had just been mortally wounded.

Erec had sunk to his knees, blood visible from the lightly-padded, fabricated armor he wore. If they had been fully prepared with their battle armor, the arrow probably wouldn't have done as much damage; but as Tristan ran towards him, he saw the anguish in his friend's face.

But he couldn't get there—a woman jumped in front of him and raised her ax high to strike him down. Adrenaline rushing through his entire body, he easily knocked the weapon out of her hand with his sabre. She jumped at him, but his leg came up and his foot shoved her to the ground. She lunged back quickly and cut his thigh with a small knife she produced from who-knows-where.

He had no choice but to finish the fight with her. Before she had a chance to get to her feet he slapped her down with the back of his hand and waited to see if she'd get back up after falling down into the muddy ground. She lay there moaning and turning as blood spilled from her mouth. The woman began to turn over to get up, but Tristan had already given up on her—he was more concerned with getting to Erec if there was a chance he could save him.

Arthur had seen the attack as well and had already joined Erec at his side. Bors came running up to prevent an attack on the two knights from an older Woad. Tristan stopped only a few feet from where Erec laid, Arthur holding his limp head and shoulders. He didn't need to move any closer; he knew Erec was dead.

Whatever Woads hadn't been killed retreated in defeat. The other knights made their way through the dead bodies of their enemies and gathered where Arthur knelt next to their fallen comrade. Tristan's hand tightened on the handle of his sword.

"Two arrows," Galahad said softly, although they all heard his words. He sheathed his weapon and shook his head. "Damn it to Hell."

Tristan stood still, his ears hearing a distinct gasp for breath from behind. With fast reflexes and precise aim, he twirled around and pitched his curved sabre forward; the blade dug into the skull of a dying Briton trying to get to his feet, the blade cutting through his face directly between the eyes.

The other knights stood in silence as Tristan went over and pulled his weapon from the corpse. Without saying a word or even looking back, he headed back towards their camp. The young man he had stabbed in the stomach earlier was still alive, bleeding to death, but still conscious. Tristan stopped and looked at him; the Briton's face cringed in agony. He watched as hands covered the hole caused by Tristan's weapon, but alas, death took him over and his bloody fingers slipped away and arms fell to his sides.

Tristan continued back towards the camp; another knight had fallen. Five years left and they were down to seven. Whenever this happened, he questioned his own mortality, and although he was not afraid of death, he wondered if any of them would see the days they were freed from the Romans.

**øøø**

AN: In case you were wondering, Erec was a "real" knight in the legend of Arthur and his knights.


	2. II

**II**

Tristan watched from the side as Jols and Dagonet wrapped Erec's body in his cloak and a spare blanket. His sword had been cleaned and sheathed and was presently strapped to the side of his stark-white horse. Jols would be riding back to the fort with the body and when the knights returned, they'd give Erec a proper burial with the rest of their fallen companions. It was a hard thing to do, watch those that one loved and held as a good friend be buried in the Earth, but it was a fact of life and Tristan understood this. The only problem was…he felt that he could've acted to prevent Erec from leaving this world so soon.

Once Dagonet had tossed Erec's wrapped body over his horse and secured him with rope, Jols mounted his own horse and took up the reins of the now-ownerless stallion to lead him home.

"May God keep you safe," Arthur said to him in a hushed voice, for he wasn't much too sure the other knights would want to hear of the Christian God at this point, especially when they were Pagans like their forefathers.

"Shall I find you again?" Jols asked as he turned the two horses around to face the north.

"No," Arthur replied shaking his head and backing away from the horses. "Stay at the fort. We'll be moving as soon as we're ready here."

Jols gave a short nod and kicked his heels into the flanks of his steed; the horse gave a sharp nay and hurried off, the other following directly behind.

Tristan sighed and went to his own animal to prepare it for their journey. Instead of keeping his sabre attached to the saddle to hang at his legs, he decided to swing the strap of the sheath over his shoulder and keep it close in case another unexpected attack came about.

"Tristan," said someone from behind he recognized as Arthur's deep voice. "Tristan, you're blaming yourself."

Tristan stopped pulling the straps of the saddle that tightened it around the horse's midsection and stood still. He knew Arthur was due to make a speech to him, since it was common knowledge amongst the knights that Tristan and Erec were very good friends from day one.

"Save the lecture," he said abruptly and fixed the length of the stirrups on the saddle.

Arthur sighed and looked at the back of Tristan's head where several braids lay atop uncombed hair. "There was nothing you could've done. Don't even start going over it."

"Don't worry," Tristan responded quickly. "I already did."

"That's what I thought," Arthur said with a small smile. "Just don't go over it again. It was God's will—"

"Spare me the nonsense," Tristan snapped, turning around and catching his leader off guard. "Your god's will means nothing to me. Erec's dead; and not even your God can bring him back."

Tristan moved past Arthur to collect the water sack and bag of berries he had brought along. Frustration soared through his mind and he had a need to break something—or better yet, stab something with all of his strength.

Arthur had said no more and went back to the others who also prepared their animals for the journey forth. Tristan kept quiet and said nothing, even to Bors who went over the great deeds Erec had done; Lancelot made light of the situation and pointed out that Erec knew how to treat his women.

Tristan found no humor in Lancelot's words. He found no comfort in anything they were saying. In fact, being away from them was what he needed. Time alone was the only thing that ever helped him heal, no matter what the wound. He kicked his horse lightly and pulled the reigns to the left so he could out pass his comrades and catch up with Arthur.

"I'm going ahead," he said in brief. Without waiting for Arthur's comments he moved his horse onward at a steady gallop leaving the knights behind him.

If he hadn't let himself fall into such a deep sleep he would've heard the Woads attacking. If he had thought clearly instead of jumping right into battle, he would've noticed he left the camp without taking his bow and quiver of arrows, something he never did. Fates have it that the one time he didn't have them was the one time he really needed them.

If anything, he should've paid more attention to the warriors, not the woman that caught his attention. It wasn't like him to be taken by the beauty of a woman like he had experienced earlier that morning. The women he had kept company with in the past hadn't caught his attention because of their features, but more by their actions and comments. Granted, he loved a pretty face, but he wasn't like Lancelot and Gawain that required their women to be perfect.

He silently cursed himself when he caught his mind wondering and thinking of that face that kept him from the battle. If he hadn't stopped for those few moments to stare at her, he would've noticed the aim on Erec—he could've prevented it…somehow.

Above him a screech echoed and he looked up; his hawk circled the sky and called down to him. He gave a distinct three noted whistle and the bird swooped downwards. The massive wings of the creature folded after its talons clutched the two-fingered glove worn on Tristan's hand.

"Find anything good?" He asked, his hand holding the reins coming up to tap the beak of the bird with one finger. "Bet you saw what happened. Probably wonderin' what the hell was wrong with me, eh? Don't worry about it—won't happen again."

The bird gave a screech, yet harmonious chirp and turned its head to look at the distance before Tristan and his horse. The sun was up now, but a grayish blue fog swept over the land like a cloudy veil. Tristan could care less what the weather conditions where; if anything, he felt it should be raining still so his dreary mood could be complete.

The hawk stood quietly perched on Tristan's arm, his head turning in every direction to keep a lookout for any danger. The knight, however, rode his horse down to a slower trot while his mind was elsewhere. He couldn't help but remember those days in Sarmatia, the thrill of hunting with his brothers and the mellow mood that always surrounded them. How much his life had changed in a matter of seconds when those Roman soldiers appeared so suddenly…

Tristan tossed his head to relieve his eyes of the ends of hair that hung over his brow. He wanted freedom, yes, but would he ever be able to return to his previous life in Sarmatia? Probably not, he had told himself several times when he was in this sort of state of mind that made him wish he were someone else. He cursed the Romans for doing this to him and his fellow knights. The only good thing he found out of it that he had a sort-of sick pleasure slaughtering people in battle and triumphantly looking down upon them as they struggled with their last rasping breath.

"Whatever," he said to himself as he looked ahead at the edge of a forest lying in his path. "C'mon," he commanded his horses and nudged its sides with his heels. The horse whinnied at him and hurried along, its legs jumping in a full gallop.

As the trees grew near, the more his hawk looked around. Tristan tossed up his arm and the bird took flight, heading into the darkness of the boundary before them. The horse slowed down, its ears twitching about. Tristan saw this and reached for his bow. There was something…or someone lurking in the shadows. He patted the horse's neck, urging it to move forward into the misty darkness. It seemed quiet; almost too quiet. He was sure he was being watched—by whom, was the next question.

A flock of birds leapt out overhead and scurried to the treetops, leaves rustling as their wings clipped the edges of branches. Tristan's horse jerked its head, but moved on in a walk. Trusting his horse to be steady, Tristan released the reins to rest on the saddle-horn; he pulled an arrow from the quiver strapped to the left side of the creature's shoulder and prepared it into the bow.

The screeching cry of his hawk caught his ears and he looked up in alarm. He was being tracked and his faithful companion saw this. His heart pounded in his chest with anticipation. He hoped he'd find someone—he had a bit of frustration to get out.

_There!_ he said to himself and pulled back the string of the bow to his ear; he quickly released it and the arrow soared through the air and hit the center of a person's chest. The man, dressed in only brown pants and a closed vest, fell from the limb of a tree. Tristan noticed he was painted blue, which could only mean there were more of—

Without warning, without even the sharp shrill of air being sliced, Tristan felt something bury itself with intense force and a precise point into his upper-right shoulder. He let out a yell, the arrow having nearly peaking out from the other side; blood dripped down to his semi-mailed vest. He looked around quickly, seeing bodies jumping down from trees and emerging from bushes.

His steed called out in fear, the sound of more birds escaping and the cries of the Woads that jumped forward made the animal rear up. Tristan fumbled for the reins, commanded the horse to calm down, but another arrow kept him from completing this task. It brushed the side of his right arm, the tip cutting through the fabric of the heavy green tunic, but not embedding itself within his flesh.

The forces were too much and Tristan lost his footing in the stirrups and started to fall back. He landed with a hard thud on the semi-dried dirt ground; his left arm had jumped out to break his fall, but he feared that the snap he heard was his wrist breaking when it twisted upon impact. Before he knew it the Woads were upon him. He quickly yanked out the arrow from his shoulder and threw it to the ground—it would've gotten in his way if he had left it there. His arm, though screaming at him with pain, reached up and grabbed his curved sabre, pulling it out of its resting place and pointing it to the angry faces of his enemies.

The Britons scowled at him, some hissed, but they all held out one weapon or another, ready to attack at any sudden move he made. Tristan circled around; sweat dripped down his face from loss of blood from the wound in his shoulder. He kept his stiff wrist against his stomach, hoping that he'd have some chance of taking more than one warrior on with a wounded right shoulder and broken left wrist.

An older Woad jumped down at him, an ax raised and dagger held tightly in the other hand. Tristan held up his sword with an unsteady grip, his head tossing quickly to get the hair out of his eyes. He knew he looked calm, but in fact he was starting to get nervous…he had no hope of winning this skirmish.

The man struck down, Tristan dodging the swing of the ax, but having no luck doing the same with the dagger. The Woad man came about, dagger arm outstretched; the blade narrowly hit Tristan's side, but it did just enough for him to jump back and reach out with his bad hand to catch the first gush of blood.

He looked at the man who turned around with a vengeful sneer. Tristan held up his sword again, trying to ignore the wounds he received. He turned around to meet the face of the same woman he was going to kill back in the field…but behind her was another. The same girl he saw with the bow, yelling out after he stabbed that kid. He wondered why she stood unarmed watching him as he stood greatly outmatched amongst her people.

Then, something struck him from behind. He felt a sudden bolt of shock and a pounding feeling on the back of his neck, but that's all he knew as he fell to the mossy ground.

**øøø**

AN: Chapter 3 will _hopefully_ be along soon. Every time I go to write it, though, something pulls me away.


	3. III

**AN:** A big thanks to all who reviewed. I love reviews…they make me feel happy. Anywho, I got this up sooner than I expected. Hopefully I won't wake up unhappy about the content tomorrow. Chapter four probably won't get started until later on this week, but maybe I'll get lucky again. Doubtful, though, because school and work destroy my life. Enjoy

**III**

For a moment everything was dark and the only feeling of life was a throbbing headache. There was a distinct damp smell in the air; a cool breeze tickled the short hairs of Tristan's beard, and he realized that whatever had happened hadn't killed him, although when he thought about it more he wished it had.

Beyond the headache, his shoulder ached terribly with the slightest bit of movement. Something was tied on both his wrists, and when he moved his arms he figured they were ropes of some sort. The wrist he had thought snapped when falling off his horse wasn't in as much pain as before, so perhaps it wasn't broken? Tristan hated the idea of opening his eyes to see just why he felt so cold compared to before; he had a suspicion that he only wore the lightweight tunic that was usually hidden under his heavier articles of clothing.

Tristan's hands fell to his sides and with this action he was sure he was bound with ropes that would prevent him from getting away. The ground was soft and his hands resting on it felt the warmth and softness of fur, from which animal he didn't know, nor cared. Finally, he willed his eyes open and he saw that he was indeed laying in only his thin white tunic and buck-hide leggings, along with his leather boots. To the side he saw the sleeveless gambeson stained with his own blood, the heavy and long, open front coat and glove he usually kept on his left hand.

The moment he moved to sit up his arm ached with a sharp pain and he gave up, lying helplessly on the makeshift fur bed. Moving his left arm to hold the shoulder proved useless as the ropes tied around his wrist prevented it from moving more than a half a foot. His head looked up and followed the length of rope to see it tied to a tree. Whoever did this didn't want him getting up and taking off.

Above his eyes noticed the sun had fully escaped the clouds and spots of blue could be seen from the leafy canopy of the trees. He had the urge to call for his hawk, but his throat was so dry he didn't bother. He wanted water; he wanted to get up; he wanted to kill whoever kept him captive.

Tristan moved his legs to hopefully give him a second chance of sitting up, but the moment he started to get somewhere with this task, the edge of a sword appeared under his chin and forced him to bend his head back to avoid being cut.

"Don't bother," a female voice said as she rested her foot on his chest. Tristan looked up to see that now familiar face of the Briton woman he was briefly encountered on the battlefield. Up close he could see the hatred pouring out of her brown eyes. Leather cording kept the upper most portions of her dirty-blonde hair back; her face was clean, but her bare shoulders and arms bore the obvious blue markings of tattoos, and the rest of her was covered by separate pieces of leather that tightly wrapped around her.

Tristan eyed her without fear, his face calm yet inside he was agitated. "Why do you keep me like this?" He asked finally, his voice catching her by surprise.

"Be quiet, Roman," she said. "It's none of your concern."

"It's my life," he pointed out, but she ignored him. Her sword moved away from his neck. She traced an invisible line down the center of his chest with the tip, making no cut, but probably to see if he'd flinch. With the wound in his shoulder, the gash in his side and the cut on his leg, another mark on his chest would be nothing to him at this point.

"You live upon my sister's request," the woman stated. "When she's ready she will kill you for killing our brother."

Tristan made no reply as the sword was taken away at the sound of a branch breaking under someone's footsteps. The woman turned around, her long straggly hair jumping over her shoulder, and her foot leaving his chest. Two others had joined them at the spot and Tristan let out a deep sigh as he felt that he'd be stuck here for some time.

"Anchoret," the female of the two said—the same female that Tristan had seen from afar before. "Not yet."

The first woman, Anchoret, stepped away and eyed the two that approached. The younger looking woman stood shorter than Anchoret, but her features were much more becoming. Her hair was that of long, bronze curls that were loosely pulled back; only a few stray strands framed her face. Her lean body was covered in the traditional Woad attire, hers being a full-covering leather, strapless top, and leggings made from animal hide. Any skin that was showing, like Anchoret's, was clean from any blue stain that Tristan had always known Woads to wear, hence the slang name they had earned.

The man, however, looked like he hadn't cleaned off any of the blue paint from his body. His torso was bare, save for his arms that had wrist guards and a piece of heavy fabric covering his right shoulder and strap that diagonally wrapped around his chest to hold it in place. He wore the similar, but baggier pants the women did, but his were torn on the left side. He looked unhappy to say the least, his dark eyes looking at Tristan with pure hatred through the strands of thin hair that hung over his face.

For a few moments the three spoke in their native, British tongue, leaving Tristan feeling bored and annoyed. He felt that if they were going to kill him they should get it over with. Lying there with his arms tied and his body aching wasn't the way he'd want to spend his time.

"Savea," Anchoret said as the bronze-haired girl turned to Tristan, "we get what we need and cut his throat."

Savea moved next to Tristan's side; she swung her leg out and kicked him where the dagger cut was. Tristan held his breath and closed his eyes, his body trying to roll over away from her, but the restraints kept him from moving more than a few inches, which brought back the pain in his shoulder. "Bloody Roman," she spat and knelt down next to him.

"I'm not from Rome," Tristan said through partially clenched teeth.

The British woman kneeled down next to him, producing a knife that was previously hidden in her small boot. She played with the small weapon while she waited for an answer, most likely thinking by doing so would intimidate him to talk.

Tristan took a deep breath and pushed away the anguish that threatened to take over his mind. "I am from Sarmatia," he told her simply.

"You're lying," she hissed softly and held the blade up to his throat.

"If you're going to kill me, do it," Tristan said calmly. "I'm not one to like threats that never happen."

Savea pulled the knife away and held it to his arm, dragging the tip down and making a narrow slit through the fabric of his white tunic and skin. Tristan held contact with her green eyes that looked for any sign of pain as she did this, but he was determined to stay still. She pulled the knife away and stood up, looking at the bloodied knife and then back down to him.

"Who do you fight for?"

Tristan didn't answer her gentle question.

"Answer!" The man said, appearing next to the questioning woman.

"If you do not answer I'll cut your ear off," Anchoret threatened.

"Is that a promise? Or just more words?" Tristan asked with sarcasm.

The man kicked him again and Tristan let out a ragged breath. "Forget it," he said and started away. "Anchoret, Savea, come!"

Tristan didn't look at them; instead he kept his eyes closed and took deep breaths to calm his agonized body down. If they'd only kick him on the other side, maybe it wouldn't hurt as much—but to kick him where he had that gash made him feel like someone was trying to cut out his muscle.

"If you're telling the truth and you're not Roman, then why are you on our island?" the tame voice of that Savea girl asked. "You're not Saxon."

Tristan opened his eyes but turned his head away from where she stood alone. "It's not my choice to be here," he said and then closed his eyes again. He didn't want to talk any further—he had said enough for now.

He heard the rustle of dead leaves and a branch snapping, but the sounds became more distant. Opening his eyes, Tristan found that he was once again alone, still restrained to his spot on the ground. He felt the coldness of what he assumed was blood trickling down his side, down and under his back. The idle thought of where the knights were came to his mind and he wondered if they realized he wasn't coming back anytime soon. If he could escape from his present situation he'd have to find his horse; even then, he doubted he could survive riding with open wounds and defend himself properly if something came up.

**øøø**

Tristan hadn't realized he had dozed off until he was aroused suddenly by the sound of someone moving next to him. He quickly opened his eyes when a hand touched his injured shoulder. He was a little surprised to see Savea sitting next to him.

"What are you doing?" He asked when she continued pulling the fabric away from his shoulder and down his arm.

"Hold your tongue," she said as she tore off a patch that had been pressed down before to stop the bleeding. Tristan hadn't realized someone had already somewhat tended to his wound, but it seemed that she was either going to apply more damage, or finish the undone work.

He watched her delicate hands pour water from a small jug over his shoulder and wipe away the dried blood. The wound was still semi-fresh and started to bleed again. He did hold his tongue so he could not yell out if a sudden wave of pain struck him. The Woad reached behind where she sat and brought up a wooden bowl of a light green substance that Tristan was unfamiliar with.

Without a second thought, she took a large glob up with her hands and smeared it over the damage done by the arrow. It stung, but not so much that Tristan couldn't handle it. He moved his head to look away from her, wondering what the hell was going on. He would've asked, but he had no desire to speak to her any further for their previous encounter.

Once she was done with the coating of whatever-it-was, the girl put a fresh piece of clothe over the covered hole and wrapped a fabric-bandage over his shoulder, going under his arm and pulling tight. He gasped slightly; the sudden movements of his arm finally made him realize just how deep that arrow had traveled.

He thought she'd be done, but she yanked his shirt up and applied more of the goop on the slash in his side. This one didn't sting as much, but he now thought that the cut was worse than he originally thought if she was putting the medicine on it.

"That should help it heal properly," she said finally while wiping her hands on the extra fabric pieces she brought.

"Why?" Tristan asked again, wanting answers.

"I want you to get better so I can fight you and kill you," she said simply as if what she said was common sense.

Tristan raised his brow, having not expected such an answer. "That makes no sense," he told her. "What's the point?"

"You killed my brother, therefore I will kill you," she remarked with a deathly stare from sharp green eyes.

"You and your people killed my friend," he replied. "I have every right to kill you. And I will if you fight me."

"I will stab you the same way you stabbed him. I will let you lie on the ground and suffer for the last moments of your life."

"You Woads are vile and disgusting creatures," Tristan said much more softly, but kept his eyes directly on her own to show that she did not intimidate him.

She slapped him harshly across the face and stood up. "You say this when you're people come storming onto our land and claim it for yourselves! You think you're stronger, smarter, and have the power to conquer whatever land you think should belong to you! How dare you say such things to me; you're the disgusting man that's lying helpless at my mercy. I could've let them kill you the moment you fell off your horse."

"Then you should have," Tristan said back without hesitation.

The girl said nothing further and stormed off. It was then Tristan noticed the other woman, Anchoret, standing off to the side watching what had just taken place. She looked after the other as she passed with fury, and then turned her attention to the knight who was trying to ignore them both.

She stepped to the side of him, holding a sword in one hand and a bow in the other. On her back was a quiver and Tristan could see the bundle of arrows peaking from over her shoulder. Without a word she lifted the sword and brought it down to slice away the ropes that bound Tristan to the distant trees.

He brought his hands together and cracked each wrist from the one position they had been forced to keep; his head lifted up a little as the Woad woman walked around him and sat on a fallen and rotting tree trunk in front of him. Tristan dared to sit up, careful not to apply much pressure on his right side.

Anchoret rested the sword against the tree trunk, and then pulled out an arrow from its resting place on her back. She held it against the bow, holding the weapon down, but ready if she needed it. Tristan wasn't stupid enough to make any sudden move, so he mentally told her that she could give up and rest easy. He pushed himself back to a tree and leaned back against it, relaxing his weary body.

Above him he heard the sound of a hawk screeching overhead. He glanced up, having the feeling that was his bird telling him that it was there.

"Go ahead."

Tristan looked over to the woman and gave her a faded questioning look.

"Call your bird down here and tell it to find your friends. When they come, they'll find you hanging half dead and upside down. Then, we'll kill each of them and put their carcasses under you so you can stare at them as you slowly die."

Tristan grunted softly and looked away from her. The other had called him a disgusting man, yet they went around thinking of different ways to torture and kill him. When and if the knights came looking for him, they'd be prepared and wouldn't lose as easily as these Woads anticipated. But at the moment, all Tristan could do was sit and wait.

**øøø**


End file.
